The Wretched
by PlonkerOnDaLoose
Summary: Mutants occupy the lowest class of society; stripped of basic human rights, they are treated like animals. The wretched will not stand for this much longer ... 'Les Mis' WITH X-Men characters and WITHOUT singing. A pet project of mine. Ends in a ROMY!


**A/N:** _bonjour, mon ami! _This fic is, essentially, a contemporary version of _Les Miserables_ set in America, and, obviously, with the X-Men characters. Basically, what I want to do with this fic is just have some good fun. I love _Les Mis_, and I love the X-Men universe, so what better way to demonstrate this love than by combining them! And you'd be surprised at how well they work together. It's a little creepy, actually. LOL – For example, instead of the poor of 18th century France being '_les miserables_', the Mutants are '_the wretched_'.

Hoping you guys will enjoy it!

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**THE WRETCHED**

**  
Prologue**

(_2020, Detention Facility for Dangerous Mutants, Nevada Desert_)

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_

_

* * *

Look down, look down__  
Don't look 'em in the eye,__  
Look down, look down  
You're here until you die

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_

A fierce sun beat down on the red dirt. For miles, desert stretched, flat and barren. A solitary vulture hovered above the canopy of dust, a fire blanket keeping the sun's light out and the earth in, keen eyes peeled for the slightest movement on the ground below. But nothing living stirred, only dust. The scavenger flew on, desperate for food, but the desert flew with him, a parallel, a constant carpet of dust and rock.

Then, in the middle of this desolate landscape, rose up a solitary grey complex, concrete walls and electric fences. The vulture dived, unsteady and scraggy, skimming the barred wire coils embedded atop the prison walls. The thunder of mental on stone split the air and the dust grew choking thick. Beyond the gates, a train of man, chained together, broke rocks in the fatal heat, strange metal collars clamped tight about their throats.

Stripped to the waist, they toiled, blinded by sweat, dust from the rocks coating the lining of their throat and lungs, years of blisters a comforting cushion against the heavy sledgehammers. Across every man's chest a number was branded in black, marking him as Mutant and as a criminal. Between their ranks, prowled guards, dust masks pulled down over their mouths and noses, armed with cattle prods and rifles. If a man but rose his head, he was shocked; if he talked to his neighbour, he was shocked; if he stopped, he was shocked.

_

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Look down, look down  
Don__'__t look __'__em in the eye,  
Look down, look down  
You__'__re here until you die

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_

Midday approached and some were stalling, wilting in the heat. The guards marched, up and down, and the men, in some cons' solidarity, urged each other on. When one made the mistake of glaring after a passing guard, his neighbour dealt him a blow, hissing "Don't look 'em in the eye!"

"The sun is strong," gasped an elderly man, wiping sweat form his weary brow. "It's hot as hell below."

"Look down!" warned his neighbour, a guard drawing near, twin suns reflected in his mirrored sunglasses. "There's twenty years to go."

"I've done no wrong! Sweet Jesus hear my prayer!"

A guard delivered a fetching kick in steel-capped boots. "Sweet Jesus don't care for Mutant filth like you. Now WORK!"

Further down the line, a young man paused to gaze at the horizon, blue eyes clouded with fever. As though dreaming, he struggled forward, arms outstretched. "I know she'll wait. I know that she'll be true."

"Look down, look down," groaned his fellows. "They've all forgotten you."

"When I get free you won't see me here for dust." The youth spat on the dirt, surging forward, fuelled by delirious desire.

The vulture swooped down on the tiny oasis.

He reached the end of his tether and tripped, falling flat. A guard smashed him over the head with the butt of is rifle and waltzed on by. The young man's neighbour dragged him upwards, setting him on his feet, and thrust the sledgehammer back into his hands with a fraternal brutality. The youth hefted it high over his shoulder with intent to smash the skull of the guard– Only for his fellow to clap hold of his shoulder, saying, "Look down, son. Look down. Don't look 'em in the eye. Don't give 'em the satisfaction."

The young man fell to his knees in anguish. "How long, oh Lord, before you let me die?"

_

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Look down, look down  
You'll always be a slave,  
Look down, look down  
You're standing in your grave

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_

Dust plumed skywards like some mockery of a smoke sign, an SOS, as an armoured van drove towards the prisoners, bearing fresh guards. The driver scurried from his cab to open the door for his superior. The man descended, short in stature, and stocky, but imperial, in command completely. The prisoners working closest to him shuffled away.

Lifting his glasses from his nose, the man breathed twice on each lens before polishing them with the corner of his jacket. No dust clung to his clothes; it dared not. Replacing the glass, he smiled around at the pitiful scene before him, the crying and moaning, and rubbed his hands together. This was his work.

He turned to the captain of the guards. "Bring me prisoner 24601."

A boy, no more than nineteen, stumbled under the weight of the hammer, collapsing into a cloud of dust. The guards were onto him like flies to a rotting corpse. When they dispersed, the boy did not rise.

The vulture flew in close, perching on a fragment of shattered rock near his head. Blood trickled, a crimson snake across the cracked saltpan. The vulture hopped down off the rock, cracking footprints in the parched dirt as it pawed towards the meat. It let out a triumphant caw, aiming for the soft jelly of the eyes–

Impaled, the vulture keeled over, dead.

"You picked the wrong takeout, bub." Wolverine straightened, claws retracting. He sniffed the air, the scent of starch and fresh water that accompanied the guards unmistakable. He tensed, ready for the electric shock, the agony redoubled by his metal skeleton. His regenerative powers, his super strength and senses; all were blocked by the collar around his neck, the same one that all Mutants imprisoned here were fitted with. He could still use his claws, but it would have been foolish to challenge the guards now that a single bullet could kill him, kill him dead. He bit down on his tongue, waiting for the white-hot pain–

But no pain came. Instead, crippling hands seized him by the upper arms, dragging him backwards. He did not fight. Nineteen years of backbreaking labour had left him a changed man.

The guards threw him in a heap in the dust at the commander's feet. Ignoring the screams of his muscles, Wolverine forced his battered body to stand.

"Prisoner 24601," said the man. "Your time is up and your parole's begun. You know what that means?"

"Yes," snarled Wolverine. "It means I'm free."

The man smiled indulgently. "No." He threw a slip of paper in Wolverine's face. "It means you get your yellow ticket of leave. You are Mutant– "

"I am a man."

"You robbed a house!"

"I wouldn't have needed to if the law allowed me to work …" The memories assaulted him, the rage, the humiliation, the dreadful desperation. With ragged breath, he spoke, "My wife was close to death … and we were starvin– "

"You will starve again unless you learn the meaning of the law," the man snapped, merciless. A smirk pulled at his thin lips. He snapped his fingers and, in an instant, the guards were upon Wolverine. Two held him down while a third, wielding a drill, unfastened the tourniquet collar from his throat. In a rush, a split second, the world came flooding back. In torrent of super-sensitivity and strength, the aches and pain of the past twenty years were thrown from his shoulders like an old coat. With a strangled roar, Wolverine ripped free from his manacles. Adamantium claws dazzling in the sun, he fell to his knees, howling like a wounded animal.

"I know the meaning of these nineteen years," he whispered. "A slave of the law."

Stryker tossed a handful of metal to the dust at Wolverine's feet. Dogtags.

"Five years for what you did," he lectured patronisingly. "The rest because you tried to run. Yes, 24601– "

"MY NAME IS WOLVERINE!"

Wolverine leapt to his feet and ran. He did look back.

The man called after him. He did not bother to raise his voice, knowing Wolverine's newly restored super senses would catch his shout.

"And I'm Colonel Stryker. William Stryker. Do not forget my name. Do not forget me, 24601!"

_

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Look down, look down__  
You'll always be a slave,  
Look down, look down  
You're standing in your grave

* * *

_

* * *

Well? Give it to me straight, I'm man enough!

_Viva la France!_

Ta, Plonskie.

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CAST SO FAR:

_**  
Jean Valjean **_–_ Wolverine/Logan_

_**Inspector Javert **_–_ Col. William Stryker _


End file.
